


Threshold of Infinity

by wingsofduskanddawn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-14
Updated: 2014-09-14
Packaged: 2018-02-17 09:56:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,193
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2305571
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wingsofduskanddawn/pseuds/wingsofduskanddawn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When John is injured, Sherlock finds himself reevaluating his decisions, and the pair wind up realizing something they've been blind to all along. I OWN NOTHING.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Threshold of Infinity

A/N: Sorry I've disappeared for so long, my darlings; I hope this makes up for it. College means it'll take me longer to write, but I hope that what I do produce is worth the wait. This turned out a bit more poetic than I was expecting, but I think it's pretty good. Let me know what you think?

~Wings

It was a bloom of deepest crimson that stopped Sherlock in his tracks, and for a fraction of a second, even seemed to stop his heart. John leaned heavily on the brick wall to his right, gasping and taking in huge gulps of air.

"He's getting away! Keep going!" John's words spurred the consulting detective back into action, rage lending him speed and even more adrenaline than usual. It was a matter of minutes before he tackled the man who'd shot at John to the ground, giving him a black eye and slamming his head back against the concrete so he blacked out. He hastily texted Lestrade, who showed up with sirens blaring, barely reacting to the fact that Sherlock had beat up their suspect.

When John got out of the passenger seat, looking perfectly fine but for the strip of fabric wrapped around his upper arm and tied tightly, Sherlock felt his heart thud faster in relief. John frowned and tilted his head, obviously wondering what was going on in Sherlock's head for that strange expression to be on his face. He'd never seen the genius look quite like that before. He looked… afraid.

"You okay, Sherlock? You didn't get hurt or something, did you?" John scanned him quickly with his eyes, but he couldn't see so much as a scratch on the tall detective.

"Fine," he said absently, wondering why fire burned in his veins from the way those blue eyes skated over his body, nearly intimate as a touch. He knew what it was to have those competent hands on his body, healing him, and he could feel them everywhere at once, suddenly. But he couldn't completely enjoy the moment, as his own gaze kept being drawn to the shorter man's upper arm, where his blood had stained the fabric.

"Good. I didn't think he'd gotten you, but I guess I'm not as fast as I used to be. He nicked me in the arm, but I'm pretty sure it's not even bleeding anymore. Lucky thing, that." John made a face when he talked about his speed, but it was Sherlock's turn to raise an eyebrow when he called getting shot "lucky."

"Well, lucky in the sense that it could have been much worse, and it wasn't. So the two of us live to solve cases another day." John grinned, completely unbothered by the fact that he had escaped death only a few minutes ago, but not for the first time Sherlock cursed John's need for adrenaline and adventure. It made him an excellent partner, true enough, and he would have been lost without his blogger. The problem was that he hated knowing that the life he loved put John in danger.

"Yes," Sherlock said, still more or less on autopilot. It had gotten worse lately, this fear he felt for John, as he'd begun to realize how he felt. Now, he felt sick as he realized that he wasn't going to be able to suppress it this time. So he decided not to try.

Spinning on heel, Sherlock strode off to flag a cab, trying hard not to be hyperaware of John's presence at his side. The doctor barely got into the cab in time, and huffed in irritation when he barely managed to get the door closed before it was off and away. The ride to Baker Street went in silence, and Sherlock ran out and into their flat without waiting for John as usual. Today, however, he picked up his violin and began to play immediately, the music just a little too choppy to be beautiful for several long minutes.

The notes did eventually even out into a melody, one that John recognized enough to hum along to absently as he made tea for the two of them, just like he always did. It was their usual pattern, but usually only when they were working on a case, not when they'd solved one. John wasn't oblivious enough to miss the fact that this night felt… different, than all the ones before. It wasn't the case that felt off, but Sherlock.

"All right, there?" John asked as he put Sherlock's tea within easy reach. The other man ignored him, which didn't surprise him in the slightest. He was used to being ignored. But again, the whole night had had an entirely different flavor, and even this small thing felt charged with a sort of energy John didn't recognize.

Sherlock played for several hours, while John caught up on his blog, drank about a dozen cups of tea, and watched some crap telly.

He took his last cup to the kitchen, picking Sherlock's up on his way, and then walked back into the main room, stretching and yawning.

"Well, Sherlock, I'm going to turn in. I'll see you tomorr—oh" John's sentence ended on a moan when Sherlock dropped his violin and bow on the chair, whirled around, shoved John up against the wall, gripping his shirt collar while he plundered his mouth with clumsy enthusiasm.

It was sloppy, and wet, and a little painful, and absolutely glorious. Once he realized John wasn't going to fight him, Sherlock seemed a little uncertain what to do with his hands, and they fluttered in the air before John reached up and linked their fingers together, simply holding them there gently in an attempt to soothe the consulting detective.

They must have stayed there for only a few minutes, but it was the longest eternity, the most fleeting second imaginable, and they fell into the ocean that opened up beneath their feet together, felt it swallow them whole and send them spinning, spiraling through galaxies of emotion faster than the speed of light or sound, faster and more intense than anything they had ever known. They clung to each other while the world was unmade, clung tighter still as it was reformed, the same and yet so very, very different, as if something that had always been wrong was suddenly right, so very right, and it made all the difference for the two men who before had been so incomplete and were for the first time whole.

For Sherlock, it would never again be enough to simply work with John, be content with being his friend and partner and flat mate. He needed to possess, to know John belonged to him so that he might feel as if there was somewhere he belonged. All his life, he'd been told he was a freak, and been proud of that fact, but now he needed with an intense desperation to feel like he might be allowed to have a normal relationship with this one, ordinary, extraordinary man.

"Mine," he growled against those lips after a time, when the need for breath was almost stronger than the need for contact, if only so the contact could continue, and John shivered beneath him, those miraculous hands pulling him in instead of pushing him away as he'd half-feared. The world was suddenly fire and heat and passion, and as John's hands tugged him in until it felt as if they were becoming one person, Sherlock realized he would never have enough. That didn't mean, however, that he couldn't try.

"Let me take you to bed, John." He asked, demanded, implored as one hand tangled in his hair, tugging in a way he'd never thought he would like, but now wondered how he'd ever lived without. It wasn't pain, but urgency, a flame that could only grow brighter and brighter as time went on, defying the laws of the universe because there were no laws here, on the threshold of infinity.

They made it up the stairs somehow, with a trail of clothes littering the places they fled like quicksilver, searching for a way to feel solid, tactile, real with the fire burning them up, hollowing them out and filling them up with every sigh and moan, every pant and whisper.

Their kisses were confessions as they fell into bed together, wanting to confess, all at once, the years of loneliness and pain and hopelessness that had been their lives before they had found one another. They relived every moment together, with the perfect understanding of two people who know one another well enough that no words are necessary to say everything. There were no barriers now, no space between, just lightning arching through their veins until the strokes turned gentle, sweet summer rain following a storm, healing the earth it had just ravaged.

What survived bloomed, then, fresh and full and incredibly beautiful, growing in the two of them and twining them together inextricably, so they could never truly be parted again. Tender touches and exhaled endearments followed the flash fire, a slower but no less passionate exploration of the simple fact that they could never be complete without each other, never again. And neither minded, as they lay there together, worshipping with their eyes and words and hands until they were finally satisfied enough to simply lay there, wrapped up in each other.

"You are never allowed to get hurt again, John. I don't think I could stand it." Sherlock's low murmur was nearly a growl, unbelievably sexy to the doctor curled up with his head on that rumbling chest. John smiled against his bare, slick skin, a small flicker of movement that the consulting detective, who rarely missed a thing, filed away in the suite in his mind palace that was, and had been from the moment they'd met, dedicated to John Watson.

"It's a part of our lives, Sherlock. I can't quit any more than you could. But you needn't worry. I will never leave you. Wild horses couldn't tear us apart; I doubt a stupid criminal could. And if you spend all your time worrying about what might happen, you'll never get to enjoy what is happening. And I think that's a far greater injustice than if one of us were to die for the other." Because John's words were true, and unexpectedly wise, Sherlock was quiet for a long moment, thinking. His arms reflexively tightened around John, but eventually, he could bring himself to concede the point.

"We've already wasted so much time. It would be a shame to let fear ruin all that we have. You may have to help me, John. I am not very good at this, and I think you know that." Sherlock's confession, so extraordinary for the man who was typically thought to be expert at everything, earned another sunny grin.

"I don't think you have to worry, Sherlock. The way I see it, you're doing just fine, and I don't expect to have a relationship with you like the ones I've had before. They've all been so shallow and pale, compared to this. Don't judge us by their standards, as that too belittles what we have here. Just promise you'll never let this go, because you know I never will, and that's more than enough for me."

"You know me well enough to know by now, John, that when I actually care about something, I obsess. The way I feel for you is more intense than the brightest star, vaster than the breadth of the universe itself. Love itself pales by compare."

John, who'd never even considered that Sherlock might be capable of poetry, let alone offer it up to him, felt his eyes widen, and had to sit up and look at the younger man, see the truth shining in those oceanic eyes.

"You know I feel the same way, right? I don't have the words, like you apparently do, but it's there."

"I know, John. Your heart's in your eyes tonight." John blushed at this, and Sherlock gently cupped his cheek, ensuring that he couldn't look away. "Love does not come close to describing this feeling which had overridden everything else, but as words are wholly inadequate on this matter, it shall have to do. I love you."

"And I you, Sherlock." John moved to kiss him then, taking charge for the first time that night, and Sherlock let him. Their relationship would be a give and take, as day and night both have their times, but always they would respect each other, understand that every compromise was just another expression of their unbreakable bond, and know that there would never come a time when it wasn't worth it. As they came together again, in a way that was new but would always feel that way even decades from that moment, the two found themselves laughing a little, even as they kissed. In that moment, they knew ecstasy, and though they knew perfection was impossible, somehow they found it anyway, staring into each other eyes, into each other's hearts, with nothing hidden away.


End file.
